


Four Seasons

by deweii



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mostly Fluff, but some minor angst because I can't resist, courf really loves all his friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 16:05:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18781588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deweii/pseuds/deweii
Summary: The progression of Courfeyrac and Combeferre's relationship through the seasons.





	Four Seasons

**Author's Note:**

> because they're my favourite boys and there's never going to be enough courferre for me.
> 
> unbeta'd.

i. _spring._

 

On the twentieth of March, Courfeyrac invites over all his friends to the apartment he shares with Marius for a spring equinox celebration (“It’s the vernal equinox, Courf,” Combeferre tells him, but he’s smiling and doesn’t protest when Courfeyrac flings an arm around his shoulders, laughing, and runs a hand through Combeferre’s thick, cropped black hair as if to tousle it).

His favourite season is actually summer, but he’ll take any excuse to throw a party. Besides, spring being a symbolic new beginning and all that. Flowers blooming, the first change of season after the inevitable tick of a new year, the first breath of warmth after winter’s icy grip.

Never mind that, on the twentieth of March, there is grey patches of slush covering more lawns and cold still nips at any and all exposed skin like a ravenous beast. Musichetta says as much to him when he talks about it, but they’re laughing, and everyone is in high spirits.

Some of them could grumble about parties all they wanted (Enjolras and Combeferre for being “disruptive”, Joly because of how loud they could become, Éponine, and Marius, though he and Combeferre both stayed silent about their disapproval), but nobody could _not_ relax at Courfeyrac’s.

If asked, he would claim he just enjoyed parties and the company and the antics one could get up to. In truth, he loved all that, but nothing more than seeing the smiles lighting up his friends’ faces and their walls crumbling away as the night wore on and they settled gladly into the company.

He isn’t quite at the stage in his life where Courfeyrac will admit that. He does have a reputation to uphold after all, and that reputation is not “hopelessly adorable sap”. Yet.

It’s warm, and there’s a pleasant buzz in the air around him. Or maybe it’s his head, he’s had a drink or two by now. Jehan is pressed up against him on one side and Combeferre on the other, and they’re both keeping him cosy. He’s even a little drowsy, and the only thing that would make the situation better was fingers combing through his hair. But Jehan is gesturing too excitedly and Combeferre is utterly lost in philosophical nonsense with Feuilly and Marius.

Sitting on the floor in front of their sofa, Grantaire, Éponine, and Cosette are attempting – like Courfeyrac – to follow the motion of Jehan’s excited hands. They’re talking about a poet, which is about the extent of what Courfeyrac knows, but it’s hard to concentrate when there are people talking about art to your left and arguing about some kind of paradox heap (admittedly, he could have been wrong about that one. He was only gaining snippets of both conversations) on your right.

It’s a nice party, but on an overall scale of Courfeyrac’s parties, it won’t be the most memorable one. In fact, it’s less of a party and more of a quiet night in. Most everyone is a little drowsy, but the time darkness blankets the sky, and the one of the most exciting things to happen is when Bahorel picks up both Feuilly and Bossuet and carries them through the house as if they weight as much as a feather.

(This is, of course, not to be of offence to Jehan who waxes poetry about the new beginnings of spring on the spot. It’s beautiful, because Courfeyrac is sure Jehan physically cannot create bad poetry. They can’t make clothes match for the life of them – they’re wearing a rainbow tie-dye shirt with a denim jacket and a bright orange skirt? Courfeyrac _really_ needs to come over to Jehan’s one day and make them an outfit schedule – but at least it doesn’t reflect in their art)

There’s an arm-wrestling contest between Bahorel and Grantaire. Courfeyrac might have bet on Bahorel but after five minutes at a stale mate, he’ll concede defeat. Neither wants to stop but Joly pushes them apart with the concern they’ll strain themselves. They wave him off, of course, because its not like they don’t already box together and that is far more straining then an arm-wrestling match, but Joly taps his cane insistently and that’s that.

Bossuet tries his luck with Bahorel and, of course, doesn’t last long. But at least Bahorel looks more satisfied now that he’s won.

And then Enjolras, the golden, oblivious fool, challenges Grantaire on the grounds of “settling an argument” they had been in the heat of last meeting. Everyone knows Enjolras doesn’t stand a chance – he’s strong enough but not _Grantaire_ strong – but nobody says anything. Grantaire smirks.

Courfeyrac is almost entirely sure Enjolras is doing this as an elaborate way to hold Grantaire’s hand. He says this to Combeferre, who smiles and allows Courfeyrac to bury his nose into his shoulder to stifle his giggles.

(Grantaire is no better than Enjolras but at least he knows it. He goes easy on Enjolras for several moments, their hands clasped like they’re holding onto lifelines, but of course he wins out in the end. Courfeyrac has to hand it to Grantaire, if he was hopelessly in love with someone, he doesn’t think he’d be able to look so composed. At least, he reasons, he wouldn’t be like Enjolras. He’d know if he was in love)

But eventually, everyone has to leave, and they slowly trickle out of the apartments with hugs and kisses and promises to see each other soon.

Courfeyrac loves his friends. It encompasses his whole heart, and he can’t help but give them all an extra, affectionate squeeze when he hugs them all.

Eventually, the only ones left are him, Marius, Enjolras, and Combeferre. Courfeyrac has to guide Marius to bed, because his cheeks are ruddy and he’s stumbling. Then, he returns to wedge himself on the sofa between his two best friends, and insists they stay the night because he says so. It doesn’t take much convincing.

It’s a little stuffy in the apartment now, and Courfeyrac gets them all glasses of water by request of Enjolras that they sober up (he means Courfeyrac more specifically, even though Combeferre had at least two drinks, but at least he’s polite enough not to say it) and then they settle in for a movie. Courfeyrac thankfully convinces them not to watch a documentary and instead they watch the first romcom Courfeyrac can find in the tv listing (Because Combeferre and Enjolras can’t convince him to watch a documentary. Combeferre caves when Courfeyrac anytime puts on his puppy eyes. Enjolras never seems to have the energy to argue once Ferre had been swayed to the opposing side).

Marius finds them all asleep on the sofa the next morning. Enjolras is curled into a ball that shouldn’t be as small as it is considering how tall he is and leans into the corner as if trying to melt into the sofa. Courfeyrac managed to wedge himself under Combeferre’s arm, slung around his shoulders, and is nestled into his side. Combeferre is sitting upright, which can’t be comfortable, but it warms Courfeyrac’s heart that Ferre didn’t want to disturb him. It also warms the rest of him, because Ferre is blissfully toasty and Courfeyrac could be happy to stay there forever.

They leave after breakfast and Enjolras still, somehow, looks like a disturbed cat. His hair is mussed, and he has the makings of a scowl on his face all morning. Combeferre smiles at Courfeyrac after Enjolras has clomped out of the door to go start their car.  
(That night, Courfeyrac feels oddly cold despite all the blankets piled atop him and the fact their apartment isn’t that chilly)

 

ii. _summer._

 

Cosette is the one to suggest the trip at one of their meetings and Courfeyrac is on board immediately. It doesn’t take too much of his bright charisma and her sweet smiles to rope everyone into it and then, it’s the end of June, and they’re all crammed on a flight to Italy.

(Courfeyrac pats himself on the back for the seating arrangement. Enjolras wants their triumvirate together, but he does some wiggling and convinces Enjolras that they can sit across the aisle from him. It doesn’t escape his notice that his cheeks grow pink when Courfeyrac happens to mention he wasn’t sure where else to put Grantaire. Ferre gives him a look when Courfeyrac nudges his foot with an ill-concealed grin, but his eyes are bright too and he doesn’t comment on Courfeyrac’s meddling)

He wishes he could get Enjolras to stop reminding everyone it’s not a vacation, they’re here for volunteering and not sightseeing. Everybody already knows this, and they haven’t even gotten to their lodgings yet (a dorm style apartment, but they had all decided on housing arrangements. Courfeyrac sadly had not been able to convince everyone to room with people they normally didn’t spend as much time with. For the most part, they’d settled with those who were already roommates. He is a little bit disappointed he was not able to get a room with Gavroche, but Éponine had crossed the line at Grantaire).

Italy is beautiful. The apartment is close enough that they can see the sunset over the ocean, which Courfeyrac insists Grantaire paints to immortalise (he grumbles but Courfeyrac knows he’ll do it and he isn’t as prickly about it as he pretends to be). It’s hot but not overbearing, a sweet summer breeze that Courfeyrac can taste.

The program they’re working is something that isn’t bittersweet, but it’s not rainbows and sunshine. The people are incredible – it’s a refuge relief program and Courfeyrac couldn’t be more overjoyed by the chance to meet so many new people and connect with them. But that doesn’t nullify the fact that the plight exists, and it turns his blood hot. That people should be driven to these measures-

(Not a single person can say he isn’t as dedicated, as passionate, about Les Amis de l’ABC and their mission as any of the others – save Grantaire. It’s instilled in him, the fight for justice, for equality, for _basic human decency_ , like a brand on his heart. It’s burning and bright and it hurt sometimes, but he’s proud of that.

So yes, Courfeyrac likes to be charming. Likes to flirt more than he probably should sometimes, gets distracted, does not crumble his own health to work like Enjolras sometimes does. But when it comes down to it, he won’t let anyone say he’s less driven for their cause)

Every night, they settle around in the hotel lobby, to reconcile with each other and trade their experiences and anecdotes. There’s a buzz surrounding them all, a kind of dazzling hum that makes Courfeyrac feel like he’s flying. Bahorel hasn’t tried to fight a single person, Bossuet hasn’t so much as tripped over his shoe laces, Gavroche hasn’t stolen anything, and Enjolras and Grantaire haven’t even raised their voices. At each other. Enjolras is still generally loud.

It’s like basking in direct sunlight after a long winter, after coming out of a cold dark room and feeling that first breath of warm kiss your skin. It makes Courfeyrac’s heart sing. He tells that to Jehan, who whips out their bedazzled, moleskine journal to scribble down notes immediately, as if struck by a bolt of inspiration.

Joly does worry, on a nearby sofa, if he’s having irregular heart palpitations or jitters or maybe clammy hands? Courfeyrac laughs. “Are you sure you aren’t describing the way Boss and Chetta make you feel?”

He has a point, but that doesn’t stop Joly from scowling at him and tapping his cane. “There are many other concerning medical conditions that come with heart palpitations and jitters that have nothing to do with romance,” he says, pouting, and Bossuet pats his shoulder where he lays against Musichetta sympathetically.

“Why should having romantic affection for someone cause physical distress anyway?” Enjolras asks, his nose wrinkled like he’s smelled something distasteful. It takes all Courfeyrac’s resolve not to roll his eyes, but it doesn’t matter because Grantaire _and_ Jehan do for him. Enjolras notices. He scowls. “For something that is supposed to be so ‘positive’, it has a lot of negative connotations.”

“Why does the mighty Apollo concern himself in mortal affairs if he deems them so unworthy?” Grantaire says it casually, teasingly, but there’s an edge that makes Enjolras bristle. Maybe Courfeyrac had been premature in thinking everything would sail smoothly.

He exchanges a glance to Combeferre where he is sitting cross-legged beside Enjolras. Enjolras leans forward and upright, getting into Full Debate Mode, brows furrowed in concentration.

“What’s the fun of love if it doesn’t make you nervous? It’s supposed to keep you on your toes,” Courfeyrac interjects brightly, before this can derail further.

Thankfully, Enjolras only frowns in consternation, and Grantaire leans back placidly. That’s about as good as he’s going to get from those two, and Courfeyrac lets out a small breath when the conversations begin flowing as if nothing had happened.

He finds Feuilly one day on one of their lunch breaks and finds him staring out towards the sea with a troubled expression across his features. Courfeyrac settles beside him, and Feuilly’s mouth twitches in acknowledgement. He’s not surprised to see Courfeyrac.

“It’s quiet,” Feuilly says after several moments of silence. Or, not quite silence, because there is still the commotion of several other Amis behind them, as well as the refuges and other volunteers. There is still the distant hiss of the waves lapping against the shores. 

(Contrary to his loud and boisterous character, Courfeyrac knows when to be patient, knows when not to press other people and let them come to him)

Courfeyrac hums, hugging his knees to his chest. And he waits.

Feuilly looks at him and smiles when Courfeyrac doesn’t respond. “I don’t mean literally. I’m just… not accustomed to this routine yet. It’s slower than back home. It’s nice, but it takes adjusting. It’s overwhelming, almost. Or maybe underwhelming.”  
It’s no secret the two jobs Feuilly runs back and forth between, on top of all the volunteer work, _and_ Les Amis de l’ABC. He’s the picture of something to admire. Courfeyrac doesn’t know a single member of the Amis who doesn’t, most especially Enjolras. Courfeyrac would drive himself crazy doing what Feuilly did, but Feuilly took in all in stride and then some, and there was something endlessly awe-inspiring that surrounded the man.

“At least you can work with kids,” Courfeyrac says brightly. “That’s something familiar, at least.”

(It’s almost irony- most of the Amis are students, and Feuilly a teacher)

That earns him a chuckle. “It is nice to have the thirteen children I’m familiar with accompanying me,” Feuilly says, eyes crinkling at the corners. His ginger hair looks aflame in the sun, and he looks more well-rested and at ease than Courfeyrac has seen him as of late.

Courfeyrac gasps and presses his hand to his chest, crumpling backwards on the stair. “You wound me, Feuilly! I am a completely responsible and mature adult!”

“Were you a completely responsible and mature adult when you dumped that packet of glitter over Jehan’s hair this morning?”

(He does not dignify that with a proper response. Even though sticking his tongue out should constitute as a proper response)

Every one of them is having an incredible summer, it’s inevitable that something happened.

It’s a week and a half before they leave, and everybody is astutely pretending it is not. They’re still making the most of it while they can, and they won’t let the future colour their present joy.  
It happens one of the nights they go out to dinner.

Everybody is already hazy, from the volunteer work (and some, like anyone who isn’t Marius, Feuilly, Grantaire, or Jehan, are still having some language barriers. This doesn’t seem to affect Combeferre any, but Courfeyrac must admit with some measure of guilt that it _is_ nice to have the leg up on Ferre for once. It’s hard not to feel small when the pair of your best friends are as smart as Enjolras and Combeferre are. Hell, Marius gets flustered, but Jesus that boy has got a brain.

And no, it has nothing to do with how very tall Combeferre and Enjolras are. Built like fucking trees)

He’s maybe a little tipsy when he untangles himself from Marius’ shoulders to ‘wander’ – which he shouts, exuberantly, and everybody promptly ignores because there’s enough commotion already and Courfeyrac is pretty sure all the buzz around them is getting completely blocked out. Marius asks if he’ll be all right, to which Courfeyrac grins and pats him on the head. Marius turns red, and Cosette laughs sweeter than the clearest bell.

Courfeyrac loves his friends and he could spend an eternity by their side, he really, truly could. He doesn’t think any of them really notice that he needs to recharge too, sometimes. They aren’t the only ones who can appreciate the silence.

It’s during his wandering that he stumbles across a patio. They’re pretty high up where they are, and when he approaches the raised stone wall to peer over it, the city lights all twinkle beneath him like a mirror of the night sky. It’s like someone had pulled all the stars down and spread them over the city.

There is nothing short of breath-taking about it, and Courfeyrac suddenly fervently wishes he had dragged someone else along with him after all. It sobers him a great deal, and Courfeyrac settles on top of the squat stone wall – which surrounds a garden so lovely it could probably make Jehan weep – and tucks his knees close to his chest.

Should he be more concerned that he’s trespassing? That this might be more trouble than it’s worth? (Wrong- it’s worth all the trouble in the world to behold beauty like this. He wishes more people could see that)

“Party feels quiet without you.”

The feeling that bursts in his chest is warm and encasing and safe, and Courfeyrac grins to himself. He doesn’t have to turn around to see who it is, but he does. Combeferre stands closer to the building, smooth cream walls casting shadows over him, that the patio was hidden behind. He watches Courfeyrac with a much more subdued smile, but it’s so perfectly Combeferre that it doesn’t matter.

“Please, Ferre,” Courfeyrac says. He puts a hand over the place on his chest that his heart beats beneath and lowers his chin to bat his eyelashes coquettishly at Combeferre. “I _am_ the party.”

Combeferre chuckles, a low rumble that has always gone straight to Courfeyrac’s chest because it is a lovely sound. It is not uncommon, necessarily, but Combeferre doesn’t laugh as often as Courfeyrac thinks he ought to. (At least he laughs more than Enjolras. That boy seriously needed to lighten up)

“What is the party doing out here, all alone?” Combeferre asks, approaching Courfeyrac’s perch on the wall. Courfeyrac watches the distant lights of the city touch the angles of Combeferre’s face, his neck, how it dances off his shirt. His skin looks warm to the touch, and it likely is, dark with a bronze polish from said lights. Courfeyrac wonders what Grantaire or Jehan would say about him, but even he knows Combeferre is beautiful. 

(Not the way Enjolras is. It bothered Courfeyrac more than it should that everyone acknowledged Enjolras’ beauty and glazed over Combeferre like he wasn’t a miracle to humanity)

“Enjoying the mirror of the sky,” Courfeyrac replies, which probably makes no sense. And maybe he’s less sobered than he thought.

Dark eyes move past Courfeyrac to gaze over the city, and Courfeyrac finds himself watching Combeferre’s gaze sweep across the city. His awe is hidden, Courfeyrac had learned within three weeks of knowing Combeferre. He doesn’t think it’s intentional, only that you must really know Ferre to understand what that glistening over his eyes means. Courfeyrac can see it when he overlooks the city.

“That’s very poetic,” Combeferre says after a moment of reflection. “Jehan would be proud of you.”

Without giving the action much though, Courfeyrac reaches out and makes a grab for Combeferre’s navy sweater. (It’s lined with pink, shimmering fabric, because Courfeyrac had taken him shopping for something other than solid colour sweaters and button-ups.

“Nobody ever suffers from having more spice in their life,” Courfeyrac had chirped, and Combeferre had attempted his best pout. It was a little devasting to humanity, but Courfeyrac had to be proud that he was best friends of the person who could make a pout look like that.

“I already have you,” Combeferre countered. His attempt to look put out was severely hampered by the way the corners of his lips were twitching)

He balls his fists into the soft material and tugs on it until Combeferre is pressed against him, and Courfeyrac can lean into Combeferre’s stomach. Combeferre is solid and so incredibly warm, and he has long since ceased asking how Combeferre never gets too hot. And Courfeyrac sighs, because this is all he could ever need.

The fact that Enjolras, or even the rest of Les Amis, being present didn’t cross his mind really, really should have been the indicator.

“Are you?” Courfeyrac asks after what should have been too long a silence. But it was never too long, not with Combeferre. He could wait an eternity to respond and Ferre would _know_.

That was when he felt Combeferre’s arm drape over his shoulder. Well, it’s actually his hand, because he’s so tall and he couldn’t put his arm around Courfeyrac without bending over to do so. But none of that matters, because Combeferre squeezes his shoulder and Courfeyrac settles further against him with his heart nearly full to bursting.

“I always am.”

Courfeyrac thinks that, in another instance, this would honestly be such a lovely place for a date. Or a proposal. Screw Paris, this was romantic as hell. (That should have been a slap to the wrist, the bright flashing sign, if nothing else had)

He isn’t with Combeferre when it happens. He’s back in his room, shared with Marius, with none but the man himself. His freckled cheeks are still red from drinking too much (one alcoholic beverage was too much for Marius honestly), and he’s lying on his bed, face-up, staring at the ceiling like it holds constellations.

“Can you love someone too much?” Marius asks without turning to look at Courfeyrac, who is tucked up on his own bed texting Gavroche and Bahorel. They seem to be taking turns stealing Grantaire’s phone from each other.

He sets his phone aside, sensing Marius about to dig into something here. “Impossible,” he answers simply. If it were true, Courfeyrac is quite sure he would have combusted by now.

But Marius still sighs heavily. “It feels like that sometimes. Sometimes, I just look at Cosette, and it… it fills you up? Like, _wow_ , where does it all come from? I have so much love and it just- where does it hide, when it’s not just encompassing you like that?” 

A few things come to mind. Courfeyrac almost says he feels that way when he’s with Les Amis, that he gets so overwhelmed sometimes just being around his friends.

It’s the one that sits on his tongue, _it’s the way Combeferre makes me feel_ , and there’s that distinction of him _feeling that way_ and _making him feel_. There’s the singling out, it’s Combeferre and it always has been, and suddenly, Courfeyrac feels numb, everywhere.

“Oh,” he whispers. Marius doesn’t look over. “Fuck,” Courfeyrac adds, softly, but with more feeling.

Marius peers at him, but Courfeyrac flees to the bathroom before he can ask. He stares into the mirror, as if that holds any kind of answer.

If Marius, by chance, remembers it in the morning, he’s not concerned and doesn’t ask. Courfeyrac plasters on a grin, and it’s fine. It’s absolutely, one hundred percent, wholly fine.

(There’s a reason he and Enjolras are friends, Courfeyrac thinks bitterly. He’d been attuned once, to his feelings, but now he’s just as bad as Enj. And fuck- he can’t tell them, God he wants to, but he can’t. This is so much farther than it normally is, when Courfeyrac catches feelings for someone. It runs so much deeper and it’s _Combeferre_. How and when did Courfeyrac fall in love with his best friend?)

Bossuet asks if he’s all right the next morning. Courfeyrac laughs and pretends there isn’t a sudden compression against his chest. (How the fuck does Grantaire do this?)

 

_iii. autumn._

 

Courfeyrac quickly comes unto the knowledge that he _wishes_ he was like Enjolras. Completely and blissfully oblivious to the way Combeferre makes him feel.

He knows he’s being weird about it (and he asks himself, at least once a day, how Grantaire can keep Enjolras so perfectly in the dark about his feelings. This is awful). He’s become hypersensitive about Combeferre touching him and any returning gestures (how transparent does this touch make him? Will Ferre be able to see through him if he leans his head on Ferre’s shoulder?).

The most telling is probably how busy Courfeyrac makes himself until he realises what he’s doing. Avoiding Combeferre. Maybe it isn’t obvious, though? Maybe it’ll just seem like Courfeyrac is finally putting in the effort and really dedicating himself to his studies and trying to _be_ someone (even if it's not who he wants to be).

And then Combeferre asks him if he wants to come over for what used to be their private study sessions, that had become like rituals, and Courfeyrac says he’s busy. (They only study, usually, for about half an hour before Courfeyrac distracts Combeferre anyway. Combeferre pulls Courfeyrac back into it, but by then they’re both getting sleepy, and they get another get half an hour, maybe an hour in, before they decide it’s easier if Courfeyrac just sleeps over)

Enjolras grabs his arm before he can flee the next ABC meeting. He tells Combeferre not to wait up. Courfeyrac tries his best to ignore the sort of kicked-puppy look Combeferre sends them, brows furrowed in confusion and it’s not his fault (His best isn’t good enough. That look goes right to his chest).

“What’s going on with you?” Enjolras asks, and now his brows are furrowed but his eyes are narrowed and he’s intimidating like this. Courfeyrac has never been cowed by this look, and will not start today, but he can understand the way it makes other people feel.

He looks down at himself, trying to figure out what Enjolras is referring to. He looks back up at Enjolras when he finds nothing out of place. “What?” he asks.

It earns him a grunt of displeasure, and Enjolras tugs at the blue gradient scarf Jehan made him several months back. “Ever since we came back from Italy, you’ve been avoiding me and Ferre. You cancelled your study session with Ferre two nights ago. You said you couldn’t come to grab lunch with me a week ago when I know from Marius that you were at home all day,” Enjolras says. He lists them like facts in an argument, and Courfeyrac feels a swell of defensiveness in his chest. It’s ridiculous, he knows Enjolras isn’t accusing him of anything.

Overwhelming that, however, panic encases him like being underwater. He’s been so obvious, that now Enjolras has noticed and- that’s not good (it was stupid to think otherwise- Enjolras notices everything except when it comes to Grantaire. Enjolras, Joly, and Musichetta are like the hyper-vigilant Mom Friends. He was probably one of the first to notice. Courfeyrac doesn’t know why he thought he could hide from Enjolras).

“Had a last-minute assignment due. You know me,” he winks at Enjolras and knows it’s stale, “I’m too much for my professor to handle. Thinks he can deter me by giving me the hard stuff, but me? I’m undeterred. Nobody can stop me.”

Enjolras’ mouth twists unhappily. “Courfeyrac,” he says. Courfeyrac’s heart sinks in his chest. 

He sounds unhappy but, worse than that, disappointed. Courfeyrac is so rarely the recipient of that tone. It kills him a little whenever he is (and for the millionth time- how the _hell_ does Grantaire do this?).

When Courfeyrac doesn’t reply after a short pause, Enjolras sighs. “Courf, I’m one of your best friends. I know that whenever you get short-handed on your schoolwork, you go straight to Combeferre. You’ve barely spoken to him recently.” Enjolras crosses his arms and there’s something pained in his expression. “I would know,” he adds uncomfortably.

Courfeyrac frowns, because he isn’t sure how to decipher that at all. What does that even mean? But the matter still stands- he has been neglecting Combeferre and Enjolras. But what is he supposed to say? Sorry I’ve been avoiding you two, I’m worried that at any given moment, I might profess my love to Combeferre and have to flee the country and make secret phone calls to Bossuet just to know how you’re all getting on?

(It isn’t that he thinks Combeferre is going to do anything if Courfeyrac tells him. He’ll be perfectly gracious about it, and that will kill Courfeyrac, because it’ll kill Combeferre. He’ll feel guilty about it, Courfeyrac knows, and he can’t make Combeferre feel guilty about not returning his feelings.

Also- Courfeyrac has been there. He’s laughed at those ridiculous notions that you shouldn’t tell someone you have feelings for because it might ruin your friendship. There’d been a nice guy, years ago, and it was after months of drifting apart that Courfeyrac realised what a bitch unrequited love was. Love sucks. Combeferre had allowed him to infiltrate his apartment with Enjolras for a week, and Courfeyrac had gotten sick on top of all that. Ferre had taken care of him, because of course he would, and Courfeyrac can’t help but wonder if the feelings went back that far and he was just that dense)

“I’m sorry,” Courfeyrac says, because he’s not sure what else to say. He’s scared to tell Enjolras, scared to tell anyone, because it makes it even more real and more tangible and this is the first time Courfeyrac has been so terrified by romance before.

He wears his heart on his sleeve. He’s never had a reason not to. He doesn’t keep secrets, he always has to tell _someone_ (he’s not a gossip- he’ll keep a secret, but his own? Combeferre and Enjolras are always the first to know after he does, Marius right behind them). But this one- he can’t. He can’t tell Combeferre, can’t tell Enjolras even though Courfeyrac knows he wouldn’t tell Ferre if Courfeyrac asked him not to, can’t tell Marius because he’d tell Cosette and she’d give him Looks.

Enjolras’ features soften, and he wishes Enjolras would look like that more often. It would do wonders for him, not that he isn’t already gorgeous. Still.

“We’re just worried, Courfeyrac. You haven’t done this before, and we just want to know you’re okay.” Enjolras reaches out to touch his shoulder, and Courfeyrac leans into the touch. He wiggles under Enjolras’ shoulder until he’s pressed against Enjolras side and Enjolras has an arm around him. “Ferre and I would both like to, you know. See you.”

(Not a lot of people know how physically affectionate Enjolras is, or how much comfort he finds in touch. Courfeyrac is a lot more open about it, but he knows exactly how to reassure Enj with touches when words can’t get through his head)

“I know,” Courfeyrac says, and pretends it doesn’t make him feel like his chest is being crushed under too much weight. He can’t avoid them forever. He’ll have to suck up his feelings. Maybe he should ask Grantaire or Éponine for tips. “I’m good, I promise. Text me about coffee, and then we’re going to going to buy you a new jacket.”

Enjolras glances down at the red button-up jacket he’s wearing, and frowns. “What’s wrong with my jacket?” he asks, like there isn’t a hole in the bottom of his right pocket and on both elbows. 

Courfeyrac smiles into Enjolras’ shoulder, and he can feel his muscles relax even through his jacket. Enjolras is too tense. He needed a massage or something. “I won’t dignify that with an answer. But I will admit, I want to see you in leather.”

(It’s cruel, he realises later, when he and Combeferre are sorting through notes at the next meeting and Enjolras walks in, wearing a leather jacket. Grantaire, who had been laughing at something Bahorel had said to him, sobers completely and then clenches his jaw and buries his face into his arms. Enjolras gives him a concerned look and asks Courfeyrac if he knows about it. Courfeyrac smiles, and shrugs, and Enjolras scowls.

Being around Combeferre is both devasting and enlightening. He can’t avoid him forever, Courfeyrac realises, because, Jesus, he misses him. But also, he wants to climb into his lap now, or take off his glasses and kiss the bridge of his nose, or get into bed with him and settle against Combeferre’s chest until his breathing evens out and Courfeyrac can just hear the steady thrum of his heartbeat. And yeah, it’s bad. Really bad)

 

_iv. winter._

 

If someone had asked if it got easier being in love with your best friend as time passed on, Courfeyrac wouldn’t have been able to definitely say better or worse. That would, of course, require actually fessing to someone that he had it really bad for Combeferre.

It didn’t help that it had already been nearly half a year since their volunteer trip to Italy and, subsequently, half a year since he realised how Combeferre made him feel. And Courfeyrac had gotten no more subtle about his feelings now than before. And Combeferre was definitely aware something was wrong.

(The only good thing to come out of his stupid feelings was how much more productive he was. He had resigned himself back to study sessions with Ferre every week, and the best way to ignore how distracting Combeferre was turned out to be putting every drop of his attention into his schoolwork.

Which was brilliant, for the most part.

“Courf.” The lines in his federal law study book were starting to blur. “ _Courf._ ” He yawns and then, without warning, there’s a warm hand over his.

Courfeyrac blinks, and looks at the hand, which is not his own because it’s darker and larger and he glances up to see Combeferre looking at him with a furrow to his brows, glasses starting to slip off his nose. He blinks again, for good measure, and looks back down at Combeferre’s hand.

There is no way he can pull his own away and not give away everything, and there is no way he can keep his hand under Combeferre’s without crawling over the table to climb into his lap. He can imagine it, shoving the stupid textbooks off the table and scrambling up, kissing Combeferre as he lowered himself down onto-

“Is it- what time is it?” he asks, instead of responding to the insistent tone Combeferre was trying to use with him. He’s tired, exhausted. _How_ do Enjolras and Combeferre do this all the time? Courfeyrac would die.

But he also hates law. Hates the ‘justice’ system and legal documents and- everything. He hates all of it.

Better to do something he hated then to try something he could fail at. Law almost feels like safety, and Courfeyrac’s too afraid to stray away from it. Not that he’s told anyone that either.

“Almost midnight,” Combeferre replies. He doesn’t take his hand away and Courfeyrac’s heart begins to pump a lot harder. “Courf?” he asks again, gently squeezing Courfeyrac’s hand. “Are you okay? You’ve been quiet all night and-” Combeferre cuts himself off and now Courfeyrac feels a little buzz, a little more awake. He sits up, finally looks up to meet Combeferre’s gaze but now he’s the one looking away. There’s a painful twist to his eyebrows, like someone had pinched him.

Deep in his chest, Courfeyrac feels his own stab of pain. He’s hurting Combeferre, the way he’s acting. It’s the exact opposite of what he wanted to do, and yet, he can’t _not_ do it.

He caves. Twists his hand so their palms are touching, and then gives Ferre’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “I’m good. I’m just trying to catch up with schoolwork, you know? I can’t run forever,” he says good-naturedly, and means it.

It doesn’t help. Combeferre frowns, for real now, and glances back up to meet Courfeyrac’s gaze. He finally draws his hand back, almost reluctant, and folds both of them into his lap. He looks troubled. “I understand. You’ve been distant recently and… Is this what you really want?”

There’s something in Combeferre’s tone that settles hard and heavy in Courfeyrac stomach. The words on the faceup pages stare up at him menacingly, taunting him. _Do you solemnly swear that you will tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?_

He’s already failing, and he knows it.

“No,” he whispers, and means it. Then, because it’s almost midnight and he can’t do this right now, maybe not ever, he shuts his textbooks and collects his papers and clears his throat. He’s on his feet, and Combeferre is watching him with a heartache frown. It’s so full of sadness it echoes through Courfeyrac, and he’s so tired he almost wants to cry.

_No, I hate this, this isn’t what I want at all, please help me._

“It’s late,” he murmurs, already pushing everything in his backpack and zipping it shut. “I promised Marius I’d go out with him tomorrow morning to help him get ready for his trip with Cosette.”

It isn’t too hard because it isn’t a lie. He can’t lie to Ferre and it’s made this whole love business a bitch, but he’s getting better at wriggling around the truth too. He did promise Marius to help him, but not until after noon. Marius was probably expecting him to stay over at Combeferre and Enjolras’.

“Okay,” Combeferre says in a way that promises he’s letting Courfeyrac off the hook only for now. This is going to be dug up again, and Courfeyrac has no idea how he’s going to handle that. “Goodnight, Courf.”

He stands up, and pulls Courfeyrac into a hug, wrapping his warm, strong arms around Courfeyrac. And he never wants to leave, never wants to go away from the security and encompassing gentleness he feels in Combeferre’s arm. Courfeyrac wraps his own arms around Combeferre, fisting his hands in Combeferre’s sweater, squeezes his eyes shut, and buries his nose in Combeferre’s chest)

He feels like his hands are tied. He doesn’t know what he could do. He can’t get rid of his feelings for Combeferre, he’d thought they’d wear off but look where he is now. He can’t do anything about it, Ferre was his _best friend_ and Courfeyrac might actually die if he lost him. They’d known each other since they were little. Losing Combeferre would be losing a part of Courfeyrac.

Marius is gone. Courfeyrac had helped him pack up, and now he’s off with Cosette and her father. They’re on vacation, and Courfeyrac is alone in the apartment. He would call Combeferre or Enjolras usually when he’s this lonely.

He calls Bossuet instead. And Bossuet doesn’t answer. He calls Jehan, and his voice is still steady while they talk. But Jehan says they’re on their way to a community garden planning committee, and Courfeyrac can’t disturb that. So, after a lovely but slightly painful conversation, he hangs up.

Instead, he turns on the television, and hopes it will assuage some of the pressure building in his chest.

This is all well and good, until one of the characters dies, and Courfeyrac feels tears prickling in the corners of his eyes. And then it all crumbles down, and he begins to cry in earnest. He’s not entirely sure why- crying from loneliness? From having feelings for your best friend? From your roommate taking a vacation? It sounds too much like a soap opera.

And yet, here he is. Sitting on his sofa, curled in a blanket, and he’s sobbing.

The realisation hits him like a book to the face, and it should have been obvious before but yes, there is someone he can tell. Someone who will understand the place he’s coming from. Someone Courfeyrac hopes very dearly does not so happen to be busy at that moment.

It’s as he presses his phone to his ear, that he thinks maybe he should have collected himself before pressing the call button. He’s sniffling, and there are still hot tears trickling down his cheeks, and he knows the second he opens his mouth to say anything, his voice will crack-

“Hey,” Grantaire grunts on the other line. He sounds sober, at any rate, if not raspy like he just woke up or hasn’t spoken all day. It’s hard to tell with him.

Courfeyrac takes a deep breath so that he might save his dignity and sound like someone who isn’t crying their eyes out because everything is not going the way he wants it to, but then his nose betrays him, and he sniffles again.

He goes still, and there’s a pause. “Courf?” Grantaire asks after a moment, and he still sounds hoarse but suddenly a lot more alert.

“Um,” Courfeyrac says. And there’s no going back- he sounds terrible, and not even the crackling phone line can mask that. He swallows and take another deep breath. “Um, sorry, are you busy? I-I didn’t mean to… um, disturb you.” And he sounds so small, and this was absolutely a mistake and he really needed to rein himself in when he got this upset instead of doing the first thing that sounded like “a good idea”.

“No,” Grantaire says. There’s a rustling on the other line, and Courfeyrac can hear muffled curses. “No, not busy. What’s going on? Is something wrong? Did I miss a protest? Is anyone in the ER?”  
There’s a little stab of pain to his heart, because Grantaire automatically assumes that he’s being called to be informed of something. He doesn’t think someone, or at least Courfeyrac, would be calling to talk. Courfeyrac makes a mental note to rectify that later.

“Yes, no, no. But it’s like- it’s stupid, it’s not important. I can let you go if-”

“Courf,” Grantaire interrupts. “Are _you_ okay?”

He doesn’t know how to answer that and shakes his head. Then remembers Grantaire can’t see him, and for some reason that makes everything worse and he tries to muffle his sob behind his hand. “No,” he murmurs.

“Do you need me to call Combef-”

“No!” Courfeyrac shouts. Then he laughs, and it sounds like he’s being strangled. “No, sorry. Please don’t call anyone else. I called you. I meant to do that.”

There’s another long pause and Courfeyrac doesn’t notice much anyway, because he’s trying to regulate his breathing. There’s still rustling on the other end of the line.

Finally, Grantaire says, “Okay, no Combeferre. I’m on my way over. Want me to pick up those brownies from the Corinth on the way?”

Courfeyrac isn’t entirely sure why Grantaire knows about his favourite brownies from the Corinth, but he can’t bring himself to care about it right now either. “You’re an angel, R,” he whispers, and hears a chuckle from his speaker. “I’m serious,” he adds, when he hears the sarcastic edge to that laugh.

“Sure. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

After he hangs up, Courfeyrac busies himself with getting up off the sofa and discarding his blanket. That’s effort in itself, but he forces himself to keep going. He washes his face, drinks half a glass of water, and makes a minimal effort to tidy up. He doesn’t change out of his pyjamas, but there’s a 50/50 chance that Grantaire could show up in his. Besides, it certainly be the worst Grantaire has ever seen him.

Twenty-five minutes later, he’s feeling moderately better. The doorbell rings, he opens it-

And finds Grantaire _and_ Enjolras behind it. Grantaire holds up the bag from the Corinth and shakes it as if this is supposed to mean something. Courfeyrac tries not to visibly wilt.

“I thought you said you were coming alone?” Courfeyrac asks. He hopes he doesn’t sound too disappointed. It’s not that he isn’t happy to see Enjolras. Only that it defeats the purpose of calling Grantaire to whine.

Enjolras’ eyes narrow at Courfeyrac, but Grantaire just shoves the bag into Courfeyrac’s chest and brushes past him into the apartment. “I said nothing of the sort. Only no Combeferre,” Grantaire says. “I ran into Enj at the Corinth. We happened to be going in the same direction.”

They must have settled for a truce, or they were both having a good day. Grantaire calls Enjolras _Enj_ and not _Apollo_ and his tone isn’t sarcastic. Enjolras is not scowling.

“You’re moping,” Enjolras says pointedly. Courfeyrac steps aside reflectively to let him wander in after Grantaire. He shuts the door at the same time he opens the bag and the sweet aroma of warm chocolate fills the air. “You’re so desperately trying to insist that you’re all right, but I’m tired of watching you stare at tables like a kicked puppy. What’s gotten into you?”

“If you’re any gentler in your delivery, it’ll be like hitting him with a down feather,” Grantaire remarks. He’s leaning against the worn, forest green sofa with his arms crossed. Enjolras stands in the middle of living room as if unsure what to do with himself, and Courfeyrac can see the moment his brow creases.

He digs out one of the brownies instead of interjecting. It’s gooey and hot in his hand and Courfeyrac could have forgotten all his problems and the tension in the room for those brownies.

“Oh, and I suppose you know my best friend better than I do?” Enjolras asks. He turns to Courfeyrac then, and all the blissful ignorance the brownie provided Courfeyrac fades away. He munches at it, so he has an excuse to hesitate over what comes next. “What’s going on, Courf? Is this about law school?”

Courfeyrac blinks. Swallows the chunk of brownie, and blinks again. “What? How did- Ferre told you?”

Enjolras exchanges a glance with Grantaire. “Ferre didn’t say anything about you being miserable at law school. I just- I knew that. I think everyone knows that,” Enjolras says. (Courfeyrac can’t help but hear an emphasis on Combeferre specifically not talking about him and law school. Was Combeferre talking about him in other ways?)

“I didn’t,” Grantaire adds helpfully. He raises an eyebrow as he watches Courfeyrac. “I thought this was about you and Combeferre.”

As Courfeyrac groans (he hadn’t planned on telling Enjolras that after all. He needs to get rid of his feelings, vent about them for a bit at most. And- who is he kidding. He wants so much more than that), Enjolras’ expression… doesn’t change all that much. He looks between Courfeyrac and Grantaire and looks unaffected.

“That’s what this is about?” Enjolras wonders. “You’ve been avoiding Ferre and I for months because of your feelings for him?”

“Shit, you know?” The words are out of Courfeyrac’s mouth before he can think about stopping them. Then he takes another bite of his brownie. Or, rather, stuffs the rest of it in his mouth and drags himself past both his friends to collapse back on the sofa. He grabs his blanket and pulls it over his legs.

Enjolras watches him with a pinched expression now, before perching on the arm of the sofa and holding out his hand. Courfeyrac reaches into the Corinth bag, and gives Enjolras a brownie. “Of course, I know. I’m best friends with both of you. You really think I wouldn’t?”

He looks a little bit hurt, and Courfeyrac suddenly gets hit with the weight of feeling like a massive idiot. Of _course_ , Enjolras would know. 

(Back in the summer of their senior year of high school, Courfeyrac had gotten the flu. He’d told all his friends he was on a camping trip for the weekend, but Enjolras had shown up at his doorstep with his grandmother’s recipe book. He’d joined forces with Courfeyrac’s mum to make soup from that book, and then he’d stayed with Courfeyrac the rest of the day, watching movies and playing cards. Enjolras had just _known_. It's another big thing that their triumverate has in common. They all _know_ )

“I-” Courfeyrac picks at his blanket. “I mean, I didn’t really think you would… understand, I guess? You never talk about love or feelings or anything.” He regrets the direction of the conversation. This must be hell for Grantaire to listen to. When Courfeyrac looks up at him, settled on the back of the sofa, he tries to school his face into something apologetic. Grantaire shrugs noncommittally.

“Well,” Enjolras says. He pauses, and Courfeyrac doesn’t have to follow his gaze to know he’s looking towards Grantaire (He wonders if Enjolras is less oblivious then he pretends to be). “I don’t, not always. But I understand you.” 

He tears a piece of the brownie off and nibbles on it. He holds it out to Grantaire, looking somewhat unconscious about the gesture. Grantaire looks a little startled but accepts it. 

“Why now?” Enjolras asks, either ignoring or not noticing Grantaire’s reaction. Courfeyrac is in the middle of reaching for another brownie of his own when he stills. “I mean, why avoid him now?”

There is a pause that drags on while Courfeyrac has to reconstruct his own mind and puzzle Enjolras’ words together (he knows. He knows what Enjolras is saying, somewhere deep and slumbering and hidden away. He thinks he’s known for a while). Then he does, and he stares down at the ugly oriental rug Marius’ grandfather had given him long before their estrangement.

“I’ve been in love with him forever, haven’t I?” It’s not a question, not truly. He knows, he does, he’d just never realised that he was good at keeping secrets from himself.

“Nothing like love to bite you in the ass, right?” Grantaire says. He’s smiling, but it’s tight. “Ah, well. I’d normally suggest getting mind-numbingly drunk, which is an option, but then I’d have to leave.” He pointedly ignores the looks he gets from Courfeyrac and, more especially, Enjolras. “How about a sleepover then? We can eat cookie dough, paint each other’s nails. I’ll get Jehan to bring flowers over when their done. It’ll be great. Love can catch salmonella and die.”

The tightness in Courfeyrac’s chest eases away and he manages to smile (he doesn’t tear up because of what amazing friends he has, he doesn’t). Enjolras stares at Grantaire with something that looks maybe like wonder and a veil of sadness, but Grantaire offers him his brownie back after he’s already taken a bite and he blooms at it. “Sounds like we’re more likely to catch it,” he says, but it’s good-natured and he smiles.

(Maybe Courfeyrac will have a conversation with both of them when all is said and done)

Enjolras tries to prompt Courfeyrac into talking with Combeferre, but that’s not what brings him to standing outside the door of their shared apartment. Enjolras is out, he knows. He’s not entirely sure Combeferre is in (and he doesn’t know what he’ll do if he’s not. He can’t work up this kind of nerve again).

 _I’ve been in love with him forever,_ echoes through his mind every day after his night in with Enjolras, Grantaire, and Jehan. And it’s true. He met Combeferre on his first day at a new elementary school after he'd just moved. When he’d been scared, and friendless, and smaller than everybody (and shy. He’d been a shy kid). And there was the boy with glasses, who took his lunch hour outside because he wanted to watch the bugs. He had smiled at Courfeyrac when Courfeyrac approached him, cautiously asking if he could sit with him.

(It was that first smile probably. He’d been lost the second Combeferre smiled at him)

He knocks and it echoes like thunder in his ears. The seconds pound in his chest, making his toes and finger tingle with a pins and needles sensation. He’s bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet. He’d jogged here in the hopes of shaving off excess energy. It hadn’t worked, evidently.

The door opens and there’s Combeferre. He peers down at Courfeyrac and pushes his glasses up his nose. Courfeyrac loves it when he does that- he knows that now too. And he’s wearing pyjama pants with moths all over them. Courfeyrac kind of forgets why he came over.

“I didn’t- come in.” There’s a miniscule twitch to his brow, but he holds open the door so Courfeyrac can enter.

He does without thinking. His feet carry him forward, and then the door clicks shut behind him and Courfeyrac’s mind short circuits. Oh God, oh God, what is he doing? What was he thinking?

“Not that I’m not happy to see you, but- Courf? What’s wrong?”

Those are Combeferre’s hand on his shoulders. There’s Combeferre, bending down just a little bit to catch Courfeyrac’s gaze, and he looks so _concerned_.

Courfeyrac could inch up on his toes right now. He could kiss him, right here and now. That would clear everything up, wouldn’t it?

“I was going to leave the country,” Courfeyrac whispers dumbly. “I was going to change my name and make phone calls every week to Bossuet just so I would know how everyone was doing.” (So, he’s maybe thought about that scenario one too many times, sue him. It’s definitely not what he intended on saying when he had been psyching himself up to visit Combeferre earlier that morning)

Combeferre’s brow furrows. “What?”

“Do you remember when we went out to Italy? For the- the volunteer thing. There was that night where I had gone to wander and you followed me and…” Courfeyrac doesn’t know where else to go with that, but Combeferre nods. He hasn’t let go of Courfeyrac, and Courfeyrac wonders if Ferre can feel him shiver. “Marius was talking about love and Cosette that night and I don’t remember what he said or what I said but I remember I was just laying there in bed and I-” He can’t do this, he can’t. What had he been thinking? “I always used to say I couldn’t ever be like Enjolras, you know how he- how Grantaire- not me, you know? I would _know_ -”

“Courfeyrac,” Combeferre interrupts. He squeezes Courfeyrac’s shoulders. “You never have to be nervous with me, remember? It’s just me.” He smiles and Courfeyrac definitely doesn’t want to cry a little. He wants to kiss Combeferre more. “So, what’s this about?” The smile fades, and Courfeyrac’s heart aches. “Did you meet someone?”

He knows Courfeyrac so well. Courfeyrac grins and it’s probably maniacal, but he can’t help it because for a moment, he’s only living in a world where it’s him and Combeferre. Nothing else not matters, not love, not rejection, not anything. “Yes. No.” He’s watching Ferre so closely now, and he swears he sees a shadow in his eyes. He reaches up to cup Combeferre’s face before he realises what he’s doing.

Combeferre’s grip goes slack on his arms and Courfeyrac can hear the small intake of breath. _Please let it be from me, please be affected by me._ “Is that why you’ve been… distant?”

 _Is that why you’ve been ignoring me?_ is what Courfeyrac hears, and it squeezes his heart. “Yeah, yes, I’m sorry. I am, I thought- I don’t know, I still think- Enj already knew. I didn’t know what to do. I would’ve told you, but I-” Combeferre is starting to pull away, and Courfeyrac’s heart jumps. _No, no, stay._ He’s doing this all wrong, he still hasn’t said that dreaded word aloud ( _I love you, I love Combeferre, love-_ ). It’s all been in his mind and as soon as he says it- “I love you.”

There’s a moment where nothing happens, except that Combeferre freezes. There’s a terrifying moment where there’s nothing but the sound of Courfeyrac’s heart trying to crack open his ribcage. Combeferre’s cheeks are warm under Courfeyrac’s ice-nipped hands.

Then Combeferre’s eyes widen, his mouth parts (Courfeyrac follows that motion with his eyes, maybe a little too pointedly), and he brings a hand up to touch one of Courfeyrac’s wrists. “You love… me?”

Courfeyrac nods, because his voice will crack if he speaks again. He still doesn’t know about Combeferre (he can tell, usually, he’s good at reading people, but he can’t now. It’s fucking terrifying). He can’t say it out loud again until-

(He doesn’t know what. Until Combeferre says something, maybe. Until he knows. Maybe)

And Combeferre still says nothing. Courfeyrac feels his face fall, shrinks back slightly. “Ferre-” His voice does crack.

But it also makes Combeferre reach out to grab his arm again and hold onto him tightly (securely. Courfeyrac wants to know how Combeferre would hold him if they were kissing). “I’m- sorry, I didn’t know that you… I’ve been in love with you for years.”

It’s Courfeyrac’s turn to widen his eyes, to suck in a small breath that tastes like wonder. (Later, he can reflect on how stupid he was not to notice it. Maybe he doesn’t know as much as he thought he did. Maybe law school has knocked some of the screws in his brain loose. He’s more attuned to his friends than this)

“Yeah?” Courfeyrac asks, whispering.

Combeferre nods. He’s close now. He’s warm, and Courfeyrac tries to nestle closer. He’s still cold from the biting winds outside. “Yeah.”

“Oh,” Courfeyrac says, but a smile spreads across his face and he can feel his eyes crinkling. “Then why aren’t you kissing me?”

It makes Combeferre chuckle, and it blossoms in Courfeyrac’s heart. (Had he been afraid? He can’t remember now)

Then he leans down. Courfeyrac closes his eyes a moment before the featherlight touch of Combeferre’s lips press against his own. He stretches into the kiss and opens his mouth to sigh into Ferre’s. He can feel Combeferre’s smile and savours the taste of it with his tongue. 

(The kiss tastes like coffee and jam)

So, he was stupid. But even with all the brilliance Combeferre has, so was he. Courfeyrac finds he’s okay with that. They have time now, time to make up for and time to grow. They have more seasons, more vernal equinoxes and winter solstices.

Most importantly, Combeferre loves him.

(He doesn’t go back to law school. He gets to hold Combeferre’s hand now, gets to go out with him or stay over and snuggle with him. He’s taken off Combeferre’s glasses to kiss his nose- Ferre scrunches it, but he’s always smiling when Courfeyrac pulls away. He’s gotten to slide everything off the counter to climb over to Combeferre. He’s broken a glass, but that’s irrelevant. It led to their first night together a month after Courfeyrac had first come over.

It’s good. It’s a piece falling into place, and it clicks. With the two of them, and with the rest of the Amis.

He gets to love his friends, his beautiful, loud, amazing friends. And he gets to love Combeferre. And he stands by what he told Marius- it is impossible to love too much)

 

_fin._

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi to me over on [tumblr!](https://deweiiii.tumblr.com/)


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